Shift
by Strawberry Shortcake123
Summary: "I thought the earth moved," he says, and it has. Tiva. Oneshot. T for one instance of swearing.


**Today I am posting my six final stories as a part of the NCIS fan fiction community. Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting and alerting my stories- you all have made my time here worthwhile.**

You want no part of this.

Your intention in coming to NCIS was to get away from Mossad, not to find something else. Love has never been high on your list of priorities; you are too grounded in reality to entertain childish, quixotic notions of happily ever after. If such a thing exists at all, it is not for people like you. People like you must be alone. It is a necessity.

So it is very ugly, very unwanted, the first time you look at Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. and feel a pang in your belly because he is off-limits. This is not only due to the restraints you place on yourself. He has a girlfriend. And you can tell- you can- that he is in love with her. Even though he will not share her name. Even though he won't admit that he is seeing anyone at all.

You just know.

Really, honestly, you have grown to care about him, this cocky, obnoxious partner of yours, and not- well, not _only_- in a lustful way. You have developed a bond with him, a bond unlike anything else you've experienced. Never before have you been so quick to trust someone so blindly. There was a time when you were suspicious of Gibbs and Abby and even McGee, but Tony… no. Not since the night he followed you to that hotel. It is not rational, and you are aware of this. And yet, for once in your life, common sense does not matter.

Only at night, alone in your apartment, do you let yourself fantasize. If he were not in love with some other, more deserving woman, perhaps he would see you differently. Perhaps your harmless flirting would become something with substance. Perhaps your partnership- a case of "we are willing to die for each other out of duty"- would morph into a _relation_ship. Perhaps you would make love for real, and as a result of desire. A pure motive. Nothing to do with ops.

And then, in the middle of these thoughts, you usually stop yourself and marvel at your phrasing. _Make love. _It has always been sex to you before; why, suddenly, are you putting emotion into the act?

You've been taught that emotions can be dangerous, and the more time you spend around Tony, the more you agree.

0000000000

After Wendy, and after Jeanne, you come to the inevitable conclusion that commitment will never reap anything good for you.

You've put your heart on the line, and look what's happened. It is beaten and bruised and battered. And it will never, ever be whole.

So you regress. You become a college kid again, committed to nothing but one-night stands. It's not fulfilling, but it's easy- and more importantly, you can slip away in the morning as if you've never seen that particular girl and bed in your life. Just a wrong turn. No big deal.

Your teammates worry about you for a while after your undercover assignment with Jeanne goes to shit. Especially Ziva. Every day, you catch her staring at you, and although you're sort of touched by her concern, you cock an eyebrow warningly until she looks away.

Having people close has never been easy.

Pushing them away is a lot more simple.

You are taken aback, then- and very ill-prepared to answer- when she asks if you ever think about soul mates. Of course, you deflect. That's what you do, and you do it well.

But as she walks away, you can't help feeling like you've screwed up.

That's another thing you do really fucking well: you screw up. Fail. Jenny dies, and it's your fault. When the team is split apart, sent in four different directions, you blame yourself for that, too. Either Vance or the universe is punishing you. And you deserve it.

It's a dark few months on that ship. Everything is off-kilter; a piece of you has vanished, and it remains gone until the day you see Gibbs and Ziva in front of you.

You give Gibbs a man-hug. As soon as you've released him, Ziva shocks you by throwing her arms around your waist. Over the top of her head, you see Gibbs smirking.

"Ziva," you breathe, and then are surprised by how tightly you hold onto her.

You really wish you'd called her over the summer.

From that first day on the ship, it's obvious something is different about her. You go back to D.C., and when her behavior only gets stranger, you start snooping in her desk.

The day you find the picture of the shirtless man with the beard and quasi-afro, your world starts to crumble. Even if you don't realize it yet.

There is jealousy. So much of it. You hadn't known it was possible, and you hadn't expected to feel it toward your partner's boyfriend, but it is painfully abundant. You are always looking at her, accidentally-on-purpose bumping into her, and your thoughts become centered on her to the point where you think you're developing some stupid high school crush. When the truth comes to light- as you watch her walk to the elevator, heading for the airport, for Israel, yet again- it is a punch in the gut, and it hurts.

You are in love with Ziva David.

The third time is not the charm. For many, many reasons, it will never work out for you and Ziva, just like it didn't work out with Jeanne or Wendy. You've realized this already: when it comes to love and happiness and all those things that everyone is supposed to pursue, you're hopeless.

For the most part, you do a good job of remembering this… and then, one night, you let your guard down. Abby shows you Ziva's address on the computer monitor, and you take matters into your own hands, because suddenly, this whole deal, this pissing match between Mossad and NCIS, is not about sides or politics or even loyalty. It's about _her_. Whatever evidence there is to incriminate her, you know that she's innocent, and your only duty is to protect her.

During the drive to her apartment, you get a little carried away with your planning.

You are going to knock on the door.

You are going to talk with her, figure out what, exactly, is going on.

If she's in trouble, you're taking her far, far away from here. _Nobody_ is going to find her.

Ever.

But she's not there.

Michael Rivkin is.

The next time you see her, she screams at you.

"Call an ambulance! _Now_!"

0000000000

The camp is hot during the day. Cold at night.

In the mornings, you are given a couple pieces of stale bread and, once in a while, a bowl of undercooked rice. Then your entire day is a waiting game. Saleem only appears occasionally; usually, he sends an underling to extract information from you. These are young, timid men who are easy to bully. You snarl at them a couple times, deliver graphic threats, and they're done trying.

You don't tell Saleem what he wants to know, either… but _he_ doesn't go away. He beats you, and you wake up in a daze hours later.

So much of your time is spent sitting and staring at the wall. You think, try to pinpoint the exact moment it all went wrong. It's hard, though; all you really achieve is a new level of self-loathing. You wonder how much longer until your body gives out. Dying, at this point, would be merciful. And it would be just.

You know that Tony was jealous of Michael, but of course that has nothing to do with the latter's death. No. Tony has never given you excuses. He says that Michael attacked him; now that you have risen above the anger that clouded your judgment, you believe him.

There's something else you know about that night.

Tony had your back. Just like he always has.

And so it is good, then, that he is safe in America and you are paying for your sins here.

0000000000

Saleem rips the bag off the prisoner's head, and suddenly, the light is back in your dark, dark world.

Ziva's face is thinner now, and it's caked with blood and dirt. Her hair hangs around her face in tangled clumps. The sight hurts you, but it is also elating, because she's _alive_.

She's alive.

And so you are whole.

She is disbelieving. Incredulous. She questions you, and you fight the truth serum. It works until she, with a new urgency in her voice, says, "_Tony_. Why are you here?"

You shrug and let the words tumble out. "Couldn't live without you, I guess."

Ziva shakes her head very slightly. "So you will die with me."

That'd been the idea, except that you hadn't anticipated finding her here.

Everything is different now.

0000000000

You have many regrets, but you also have a second chance, and you will not let it slip away.

Being reinstated at NCIS- as a probationary agent, this time- is your first step. Immediately, your relationships with the others begin to heal; with every passing day, things feel more normal. More right.

You and Tony are not as close as you once were, though, and that pains you, especially in light of what you keep hearing- that after you disappeared and were presumed dead, he fell into a bottle. That he only came out of his perpetual drunken stupor to assault Vance with a revenge plot that, eventually, the director approved in a very under-the-table sort of way.

As much as you want to- and you do really, _really_ want to- you never ask Tony about these rumors. What would be the point? It's over. Everybody is safe. It is time to move on.

And then you and your partner are sent to Paris.

From the moment you step into Dulles, you are extremely aware of his presence and the fact that it will be a constant over the next twenty-four hours. You get chills- good ones, you suppose, even though you would rather not have these sort of feelings for him _at all_- every time his elbow accidentally brushes yours, every time he places a hand on the small of your back to guide you through the crowd. McGee got you and Tony first-class seats for the flight over, and as luck would have it (or not), the seats are at the very back, right in front of the curtain leading to business class. The seclusion from the other patrons feels far too intimate for your comfort, and you spend hours upon hours pretending to be asleep.

And that's what you do at the hotel that night, too, as you lie beside Tony in the room's lone bed. You are on your side with your back to him, but you could swear that you feel him staring. He is awake, that much you know for sure. If he were not, there would be light snoring.

The two of you have been playing this game for forty-three minutes now. Enough is enough, you decide. With a huff that breaks the tense silence, you flop onto your back. "What is it, Tony?"

His lips twitch. "Your shoulder," he says softly.

Your heart skips a beat as you realize what he is speaking of. The tank top you are wearing leaves your arms and upper back exposed; you had not even considered the possibility that he would see one of your worst scars.

"It has healed a lot," you say with measured nonchalance.

He swallows loudly. "I did that to you."

His words leave you speechless for several moments. Then you remember the determined man who appeared in Saleem's camp- who _found you_, against all odds- and prop yourself up on one elbow. "Tony, no. It is not your fault."

"If I hadn't-"

"I made my own choices and I suffered the consequences," you interrupt firmly.

Your eyes meet his. They are so wide, so sad, that you can feel your heart physically breaking. "Here," you say, and, on a whim, you grab his hand and press his palm against your shoulder. He inhales sharply. "See? It is not that bad."

You let go, but Tony begins to trace the length of the scar. At first, you hold your breath; then, slowly, you release it. His touch is soothing. Reassuring.

He is still stroking your bare skin when, overcome with gratitude and something like desire, you whisper his name. His gaze flicks up to you.

You slide down on the bed, drape an arm around his neck, and, ignoring his surprised expression, put your lips on his.

Tony is hesitant at first. Soon, though, he melts into your arms and pulls you into his; he kisses you back and slides his tongue along yours. You squelch every voice in your head that says you shouldn't be doing this; you listen instead to your heart, which says that you should have done this a _long_ time ago.

Before this night.

Before Michael.

Things would have been so different.

But you are here now and so is he, and his hands are beneath the hem of your shirt, tenderly caressing your sides. You wonder, briefly, how far this will go and if you will have the willpower to stop it.

As it turns how, you do not need to worry. His hands do not reach your breasts; they stay at your waist. The kiss slows down dramatically before he pulls back and buries his nose in your neck.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he whispers with a chaste kiss to your throat.

Your fingers thread through his hair. "Me too."

You fall asleep like that, and you wake up in each other's arms. Throughout the morning and during the plane ride home, both of you consistently avoid talking about what happened.

It is not awkward, though. You have no regrets, and he does not seem to, either.

You simply showed him your most vulnerable side- the side with the scars, the side that needs him in your life- and he let you know that he will take you as you are.

0000000000

It's strange, you think, that after kissing Ziva, tasting her, touching her- all decidedly intimate things- your _friend_ship seems to have strengthened. You are more comfortable with each other. Car trips are filled with words instead of silence. She laughs louder at your jokes; you start bringing her coffee in the mornings.

Overall, it's a positive change. There is one thing you don't let her in on, though, because she, in her usual self-loathing manner, would feel guilty and responsible.

Once or twice a week since returning from Paris, you've had nightmares about how she got her scars. They are graphic, complete with blood and the sound of screaming; almost always, they last long enough that when you finally awaken, you are drenched in sweat. Then you grope around for your cell phone and fumble to read the last text message you received from her.

You just need proof that she's alright.

After a few months, the dreams start to come fewer and further between, and eventually- but not until after that whole drug cartel debacle- they cease. You sleep better for a blessed while. Gibbs is safe and Ziva is your partner; the only blip on the radar is Renaissance Ray, her not-so-secret boyfriend.

Paris was Paris was Paris. What happened there did not carry over to the United States. You have no claim on her, no right to feel the pang of jealously that shoots through you every time she laughs at some e-mail from him. You have _no_ right to feel fearful and possessive as it becomes increasingly clear that she is serious about Ray… and yet, you do.

You try so hard to stop the feelings. All she needs you to be right now is a friend who is happy for her. She doesn't need somebody she trusts turning her world upside down with a dramatic confession. _Hey, I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I fell head-over-heels in love with you. _You can't say that a whiff of her perfume comforts you; you can't tell her that you love those rare occasions when she wears her hair curly and down. If you had wanted to make a move like that, Paris was your opening, and you missed it.

Ziva and Ray have had about a year and a half of dating drama when he tells you, quietly, that he's going to pop the question. You swallow and say, "Good luck." The better part of you hopes that if she says yes, she will be happy with him; the selfish part of you prays that she says no.

This is the part that causes the hole in your heart when she says that she is seriously considering Ray's proposal.

0000000000

For a long time after your boyfriend is found to be a murderer, you wonder if you'll ever find another man so eager to marry you. You have come to crave stability, and, recently, you've developed a desire to have children. These were the two reasons you had been planning to say yes to Ray; it had little to do with him.

You would feel more guilty about that if he hadn't killed an innocent woman.

In the following weeks and months, you are more grateful for your team's presence than ever… and so when Harper Dearing blows up NCIS headquarters, it feels like a personal affront. Tony and you are in the elevator, trying to make a quick escape. You fall down and huddle together on the floor as everything around you shakes; once the earth has stilled and it hits you that you are _trapped_ and have _no idea _where your teammates are, you begin to scream.

It takes him a while to calm you down. He holds you close to his chest with one arm and uses the other hand to check your body for injuries; he whispers into your hair that Gibbs can take care of himself and so can the rest. Your muscles gradually relax. There comes a time when your heart has stopped racing and the knot in your stomach has unraveled, and you thank him, and he just squeezes your side in response.

After that, the two of you haphazardly stand up and start looking for a way out. He helps you onto his shoulders so you can see about pushing up through the ceiling; it is jammed, though, and right after you discover this, the elevator rumbles and slides down the shaft.

You cling to him as you lose your balance and barely manage to land on your feet. Breathless, you state the obvious. "We slipped."

"Did we," he says flatly. "I thought the earth moved."

Ignoring the comment, you look up and see a bead of sweat trailing down his nose. "You're sweating."

Tony turns and suddenly, his face is right there. Too close. "It's hot in here."

Oh, yes. It is. "I had not noticed," you lie, because it is safer.

"Really," he says, reaching out to brush a piece of hair out of your face. He moves it behind your ear, grazes the side of your head with the back of his hand.

And you realize that he was right the first time.

The earth has, indeed, moved.


End file.
